Maestro
by Asher J
Summary: Sam leaps into an orchestra conductor. His mission: to save the life of his fiancée before she's murdered by her ex.
1. Chapter 1

_**MAESTRO**_

**CHAPTER 1**

_"Theorizing that one could time-travel in his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator—and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own, and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on this journey is Al, an observer in his own time who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home."_

**May 25, 1984**

_**W**_hen the all-too-familiar blue, hazy light started to fade, the first thing Sam heard was classical music playing. To be exact, it was the last few bars of Johann Strauss' "Die Fledermaus Overture". He recognized it right away, because when he was a kid, that was his paternal grandfather's all-time favorite orchestral piece. Every time he went to visit his grandparents, that was the one song he could always expect to hear on their radio. He had nothing against classical music, but he was always partial to bands like the Beatles and the Stones.

The blue light stopped completely, and Sam found himself standing in front of a full orchestra with both arms swinging upward as the song came to its close. At the very last chord, a thunderous applause erupted from behind. And that's when it hit him: Sam wasn't _in_ the orchestra. He was the conductor.

Upon lowering his arms, he saw, in his right hand, a white fiberglass baton. When he looked down at himself, he was wearing a jet-black tuxedo with a spotlessly white shirt, vest and bowtie. There was a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a gold and onyx cufflink in the cuffs of both shirtsleeves, a gold garnet ring on his right ring finger, and in the buttonhole of the tail jacket's left lapel was a bright red rose.

For a moment, Sam just stood there. As usual, the location upon his arrival to a leap was disorienting. He'd found himself in some really wacky situations before, and try as he might, it was something he never could get used to.

"Greg!" an urgent voice with a heavy Australian accent whispered. Sam looked to the right, and in the front row, seven seats away from the podium, was an absolutely _gorgeous _youngbrunette with a golden tan, deep blue eyes, and a light brown viola in her lap. Her hair was moussed, teased and blow-dried within an inch of its life, making her look like a very classy and sophisticated Valley Girl. Basically, she was one of those women that project observer Al Calavicci would be swooning over and longing for a night in the sack with. Never in all his years of leaping was Sam glad not to have leaped into her, whoever she was.

"Aren't you going to take a bow?" she asked.

"Oh," Sam said sheepishly. "Right."

He turned and faced the still-applauding audience. Stepping off the podium, he bowed and acknowledged the musicians behind him. This wasn't the first time he leaped into somebody with a musical background. On one such leap, he was a blind pianist. This time, however, he could see perfectly, so he took that as a good sign.

That is, until he took a second bow. His eye wandered over to the sixth row of the auditorium, and sitting five seats away from the center stage aisle was a young blond man with hazel eyes and a fierce glare on his face. He stared directly at Sam and, with his right index finger, made a quick slashing motion across his throat.

"Oh, boy," Sam whispered, doing everything humanly possible to hide the paralyzing fear he was feeling. Right away, he knew it was the kind of leap that made him think that it could be his last.

The reception room was jam-packed. The orchestra members were mingling about, congratulating each other for a hell of a good concert, and enjoying the wine, champagne, hors d'oeuvres, and Godiva chocolates. Three heavyset bearded men were standing near one of the windows, smoking hand-rolled Cuban cigars and joking away. The violist that told Sam to take a bow was sitting on a dark red suede couch talking to a blonde that looked around her age, and they each had a glass of white wine and a paper-thin wheat cracker topped with Beluga caviar. Sam was standing right in the middle of it all, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't take his eyes off of her—or her platinum diamond-encrusted engagement ring. When her hand was angled under the light just so, the diamonds sparkled in every color of the rainbow. This young lady was somebody's fiancée. Hopefully, the guy in the audience wasn't the one.

"Good show, Greg," a voice said. Sam turned around and saw a short, stocky, curly-haired man with grey eyes and a handlebar moustache.

"Thanks," Sam said as he shook hands with the guy. "You did a good job, too. Like my coach always said, just keep running that play till you get it right."

The man smiled in gratitude, then turned his attention to the shrimp cocktail.

_Good going, Beckett,_ Sam thought in chagrin. Here he was, surrounded by all these fabulously-dressed and highly well-bred people, and how does he make small talk? By telling the single craziest bullshit story he could think up. Oh well, at least he wasn't eating, nor did he manage to spew caviar all over this guy's face.

A mirror on a nearby wall caught Sam's eye. When he looked into it, staring back at him was a fair-skinned man with thick, wavy salt-and-pepper hair that was _just starting_ to thin on top, emerald-green eyes, and a neatly-trimmed Kenny Rogers-looking beard. From the looks of him, Sam guessed he was in his mid-to-late 40s or early 50s. Now he just had to know who he leaped into and what his mission was.

Just then, a deep, loud inhale and a not-so-subtle sigh of pleasure and longing got his attention. He looked over to the table and there, cigar in hand and standing by the 22-inch Birth of Venus ice sculpture, was Al. He was wearing a neon green tux shirt, an orange satin vest, black tux pants with white lining, fuchsia socks, and black penny-loafers. As glad as Sam was to _finally _see him, he couldn't help feeling slightly annoyed, too. If he knew Al, let's just say he was either wishing he could partake in the food or fantasizing about the ice sculpture being a real woman.

Sam's guess was the latter of the two.

"Al, thank God!" Sam whispered anxiously as he came over.

"Huh? Oh, hi, Sam," Al said, as nonchalantly as he could manage. "Wow, Mr. Big-time Conductor, huh? Not bad."

"Yeah, I suppose. By the way, if that ice sculpture was real, she'd most likely try to drown you in the clam dip for ogling her."

_"Me?!"_ Al exclaimed. "What the hell do you take me for, some kind of degenerate?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, as if Al had just asked him the world's dumbest question.

"I'll have you know that I just happen to be_ very_ appreciative of classical art and music," Al told him. "My third wife was an exceptionally cultured woman, and she was the reason why I'm the gentleman I am today. Or was it my fourth wife?"

"Al..."

"No, no, it was Ruthie. I remember because she and I saw _Medea in Corinto_ at Lincoln Center. God, I can't remember the last time I saw anyone cry that much. I must've gone through four packets of Kleenex."

_"Al..." _

"Ruthie, on the other hand, didn't shed one tear," Al went on. "And I thought my second wife had ice in her veins." Then, to the sculpture, he lovingly added, _"Senza offesa,_ _amore mio."_

"Are you done reminiscing?" Sam demanded impatiently.

"Oh. Yeah, why you're here," Al remembered, taking the handlink out of his pocket and pressing some buttons. "Okay, let's see. You are Greg Dawson, 44 years old, widowed, and the conductor of the Australian World Orchestra. That ravishing specimen sitting over there is Heidi Van..."

He shook and smacked the chirping handlink, then continued, "Vandale, right. She just turned 27 last month, she's first chair in the viola section, and—oh-ho-_hooo, _she's alsoyour lovely fiancée. Well, technically, she's Greg's fiancée, but you get the idea."

"Okay, now that we've gotten that out of the way, why am I here?"

Al checked the handlink. "Ohh, you're not gonna like this, Sam," he said. "According to Ziggy, Heidi gets shot at the next concert, which is two days from now. She also lingers in the ICU for awhile, then dies a few days later."

"I'm guessing they never find her killer, right?"

"Nope. And the cops question every member of the orchestra, too."

"So basically, I have to prevent that from happening?"

"Here, I'll check...Well, there's an 85% chance that that's what you're here to do."

"You know, Al," Sam continued, lowering his voice, "I think I have a pretty good idea who's responsible for this. As I was bowing, I saw this really creepy-looking guy in the audience. I could tell just by looking at him that he wanted my head on a silver platter."

"What'd he look like?"

"Blond, hazel eyes, and had a face that could make Manson look like Mr. Rogers."

Al fed the information into the handlink, then said, "Ziggy says this nozzle's name is Todd Francis, and he's Heidi's ex-boyfriend. That's pretty much it."

"Shit," Sam groaned. Just as he suspected, it was another one of those leaps.

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Al agreed. "Listen, I gotta go. The real Greg is in the Waiting Room. I'll be back as soon as I get more information."

Sam nodded, eager to get this leap over with.

After Al pressed the portal door on the handlink, he turned around and said, "By the way, I'd steer clear of the caviar if I were you. It's looking a little bleah."

"Thanks for the tip."

As Al disappeared through the portal, Sam knew he was caught between a rock and a hard place. If there was one thing he really came to hate about leaping, it was the possibility of not making it out alive. And the fact that some of the guests saw him talking to someone they couldn't see didn't help, either.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

**_M_**eanwhile, the real Greg was in the Waiting Room at Project Quantum Leap, and to say that he was more than a little confused was a huge understatement. One minute, he was onstage at the Vienna State Opera House in 1984, and the next thing he knew, here he was in an empty room with glowing neon blue walls. He had on a white tux shirt with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up, white pants and matching shoes, and pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. And you didn't need a PhD to know that besides wondering where the hell he was and how he got here, another thing on his mind was the whereabouts of his beloved Heidi.

Dr. Verbena Beeks, the facility's psychiatrist, came into the room with a steaming cup of tea. "Um—excuse me, Mr. Dawson?" she asked, being as careful as possible not to upset the conductor any further.

Rolf stopped pacing long enough to see Dr. Beeks standing there. When he saw the tea in her hand, his demeanor relaxed somewhat. "Thanks, love," he said as he accepted the tea. "I apologize for my manners upon my arrival."

"No problem, sir. I'd feel the exact same way if I were in your shoes."

Greg took a sip of the tea. "Assam, my favorite," he gratefully acknowledged. "There's nothing like it, especially after a long day of rehearsals. Heidi knows how to make it taste just right."

"Your fiancée?"

"Yeah.I need to tell her where I am; she must be going crazy. In two days, we have another concert in Sydney."

Dr. Beeks tentatively approached Greg. In that moment, she knew right then and there that he was not going to like what she had to say next. "Look, Mr. Dawson..."

"You can call me Rolf."

"Greg," she began, "I think you need to sit down for this."

Upon hearing those words, Greg's gaze darkened. "What's wrong?" he wanted to know.

Dr. Beeks took a deep breath. "You're in a top-secret research facility in New Mexico," she explained, "in the year 2015."

Greg was stunned. He set his teacup on the table beside him—somehow making sure that he actually set it_ on_ there—and took a step back, never once taking his eyes off the doctor. His throat felt as dry as cotton, his hands started to tremble ever so slightly, and his mind was racing. "Wh—what are you saying?" he finally managed to ask. "Are you saying I'm in the future?"

Dr. Beeks nodded. "You see," she continued, "you switched places in time with a physicist named Dr. Sam Beckett. In 1995, Dr. Beckett built what's called a Quantum Leap accelerator in order to prove that time-travel really was possible. But before we could get all the bugs worked out, he went ahead and jumped right in, so to speak. Since then, he's been bouncing in and out of other people's lives to fix what originally went wrong, kind of like a modern-day Lone Ranger. And that's basically why you're here, and he's in 1984."

"I see," Greg said, trying his hardest to process what he was hearing. Even though he was still wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere besides here, he had no reason to not trust Dr. Beeks.

Al came into the room just then. "Everything okay in here?" he asked.

"Yes, Admiral," the doctor responded. Then she turned to Rolf and said, "This is Admiral Al Calavicci, the project observer."

"How do you do," Al said as they shook hands.

"Better for now."

"I just got done explaining the situation to Greg," Dr. Beeks reported. "How's Dr. Beckett?"

"So far, so good. I told him I'd be back as soon as I got more information from Ziggy—specifically, this guy named Todd Francis."

Upon hearing that name, Greg whipped around with a menacing glare on his face. "Did you just say who I think you said?" he demanded.

"Um—yes. Why? Is he somebody you know?"

Greg's fists slowly clenched as he made his way to the opposite end of the table. "Unfortunately, yes," he said, as softly as he could manage. "Todd was fifth chair in the trombone section a few years back. Very talented, but also very ambitious and, at times, arrogant. He always believed that he was better than the others in his section, and that he deserved to be first chair. As time went on, the other musicians grew tired of his attitude—that is, all except Heidi. And as long as I live, I'll never understand what she saw in him."

"So how did you two get together, if you don't mind me asking?" Al inquired.

"Not at all. We had a Christmas Eve concert at the Lincoln Center in New York," Greg explained. "It was less than an hour until showtime, and I was backstage on my way to the bubbler..."

"The what?" a clearly puzzled Al interrupted.

"The water fountain," Dr. Beeks answered.

"Right. Anyway, I heard Heidi and Todd arguing about something. I don't know what it was about, nor did I even ask. Well, when I went over to try to talk to them, he slapped her. If I hadn't been there, God only knows what else he would've done. And yes, I fired him on the spot."

Al nodded as he fed the information into the handlink, all the while trying to hide how furious he was. If there was one kind of guy he hated with a passion, it was the kind who would dare raise a hand to a woman in anger. "Is Todd the one you saw in the audience at the concert?" he inquired.

"Yes," Greg confirmed. "Ever since that night, he swore he'd get revenge. He's been sending both of us threatening letters and showing up at different concerts. And every time I tried to get extra security, especially for Heidi, my requests fell on deaf ears. I even have proof that Todd's been doing this."

After Al finished entering the last of Greg's story, he turned to Dr. Beeks. "Sam's gotta hear this," he said urgently.

"Wait, where are you going?" Greg asked.

"To the Imaging Chamber," Al answered. "I need to tell Sam—Dr. Beckett—what you just told us."

"Good luck."

"Thank you, sir. And you have my word that nothing will happen to Heidi."

Al then turned and hurried out of the Waiting Room. "Hang on, Sam," he murmured. "I'm on my way."

When Al arrived back in 1984, he found Sam in his hotel room. The shower was running behind the locked bathroom door, the radio was on a classical music station, and he was standing in front of the mirror, pretending he was conducting the orchestra. Everything was going smoothly until the music got to a sweeping crescendo. When Sam waved his arm to the side, he lost his grip on the baton, and it flew across the room and hit the wall.

"Oh, come _on!"_ he grumbled in frustration. As he went to retrieve the baton, the portal door opened and Al came rushing out.

"Good, you're here," he said. Then he noticed what Sam was doing. "Um—did I miss something?"

"Well, besides my inability to hold onto this damn thing when the music builds, not much," Sam answered dryly as he picked up the baton and turned off the radio. "What'd you find out?"

"Well, for starters, you were right to be suspicious about this Todd guy," Al began. "Greg says he kicked him out of the orchestra for slapping Heidi backstage."

"That son of a bitch."

"Yup. And get this: he even has proof that Todd's been stalking her, and he's also tried to get extra security for her. So far, no luck."

The bathroom door opened just then, and out came Heidi. Her hair was still wet, and she was wrapped in a towel. "Is everything okay, Greg?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure, everything's fine," Sam lied. "Why do you ask?"

"You've been acting weird all night," Heidi told him. And there was no mistaking the concern in her voice. "First you almost forgot to take a bow at the concert tonight, then you were talking to yourself at the party, and now I hear you doing the same thing again. I think you've been working too hard."

Sam sighed and looked away. This was another thing about leaping he always hated: being noticed when talking to Al. How nobody ever entertained the thought of having him put in a rubber room was astonishing.

"Okay, Heidi, I'll level with you," he said. He knew there was no point in trying to keep her in the dark, but at the same time, he had to be careful not to volunteer too much information. "I saw Todd in the audience."

Immediately, Heidi gasped and put a hand to her chest. "I can't believe it," she said in dismay. "Even after all this time, he still won't leave us alone?"

"I'm afraid not. But don't worry, I'm gonna arrange for extra security to be provided at out next concert. If they see any warning signs, or notice anyone who looks even _remotely_ suspicious, they'll take care of business."

"Oh,thank you so much,"Heidi said, hugging Sam in gratitude and somehow preventing her towel from slipping off. And the last thing Sam wanted to deal with was Al checking her out.

"I'm gonna blow-dry my hair, and I'll be right with you," she smiled. "Now, what do you say we get some sleep?"

"Sounds good to me," Sam agreed. Heidi nodded, gave Sam a long, passionate kiss, and returned to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

When Sam turned back to Al, the first thing he saw was the look on his face. "Okay, you can stop fantasizing about getting lucky my fiancée," he said sharply.

"You mean's Greg's fiancée."

"Whatever!" Sam barked in annoyace. All he wanted was to save this woman's life and get the hell out of Dodge. "So, did we change anything or what?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," Al remembered, consulting the handlink."Lemme see here...According to Ziggy, the odds of Heidi surviving are at 73.3%—and they appear to be rising."

"Does somebody actually get off their ass and provide the added security?"

"Yup."

"So basically, all I have to do is make some calls and see that it's taken care of."

"Basically. And by the way, the secret to not letting the baton fly the coop is to hold onto it really tight, especially when the music starts to get intense."

"But what if I break it?"

"Naw, you won't break it," Al reassured him. "Those things are like Timex watches: they take a licking, but keep on ticking. Come to think of it, that's how I felt when I was with my second wife."

"Al..."

"Did I ever tell you about the time she threw the pressure cooker at me to get me to stop singing 'Con Te Partiro'? Granted, it missed my head by a millimeter, but in the end, it still cost me 50 bucks."

_"Al..."_

All of a sudden, the handlink started squeaking urgently. Sam knew what that meant: just because he'd prevented one thing from happening, that didn't necessarily eliminate the possibility of something even worse coming to pass.

Al looked at the handlink. "Oh, great," he groaned.

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Well, you're really gonna hate this, Sam," Al continued grimly. "In the original history, Todd was in the audience at the next concert, and he shot Heidi immediately after the finale. But Ziggy just said now that extra security is gonna be provided, she's no longer in danger. Now it's Greg who gets shot."

"Does Ziggy know where or when?"

Al checked the handlink. "No, sorry."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Sam grunted through clenched teeth. "Al, what am I gonna do?!"

"I'll have to stay by you at all times at the next concert, that's for sure. Now where did he say it was gonna be?"

Sam checked the itinerary that was laying on his nightstand. "In Sydney," he answered.

"Yeah, that's right. Don't worry, Sam, I'll stick to you like glue. In the meantime, you might wanna get busy and make the security arrangements."

"Right," Sam nodded. And he rushed to the phone.

Before disappearing through the portal door, Al added, "And whatever you do, don't tell them who you really are."

"I won't."

As Sam feverishly dialed the number, he was hoping against hope that his warnings would be taken seriously, and that not just he—but Greg as well—would make it out alive.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

** _E_**arly the next morning, just as the sun was coming up, Sam awoke to a knock at the hotel room door. _I sure hope it's room service,_ he thought as he groggily rolled out of bed and pulled on his robe. He was never crazy about being woken up in the wee hours of the morning, especially now. As he approached the door, a million thoughts went through his head as to who was out in the hall. More than anything else, he was praying that it wasn't Franz coming to finish the job.

When Sam opened the door, standing before him were two tall, muscular men in black suits and aviator shades, and their facial expressions clearly meant serious business. If they were wearing matching Fedora hats, they would've looked like the Blues Brothers on steroids.

"Greg Dawson?" the man on the right asked.

"Yes."

"Agents Laing and McNair, Interpol," he said as he and his partner held out their IDs. "We understand that you requested some extra security at tomorrow's concert in Salzburg."

"Yes, I did," Sam answered, a huge wave of relief overcoming him. "You see, my fiancée's ex-boyfriend has been showing up unannounced at several events and is now stalking her. I've been trying to tell people that this has gotten to be a big problem, but they haven't been taking me seriously."

"Not to worry, sir," McNair said. "We've already been in touch with the authorities in Salzburg, as well as some of our fellow agents over there, and they assured us that the proper measures will be taken. In the meantime, we've been instructed to stay with you and your fiancée—what's her name?"

"Heidi Vandale."

"Right_._ We'll be staying close to you and Miss Vandale for the duration of the trip."

"Thanks. Thanks a million," a thoroughly grateful Sam smiled. This was the best news he'd heard since he arrived.

After the agents left, Sam hurried to wake Heidi and tell her that everything was taken care of.

At least for now.

The night of the concert was completely sold out. Maroon polyester-clad ushers were busy showing patrons to their seats and passing out jeweled brass opera glasses to those who had box and mezzanine seats. Interpol agents were positioned at each exit, both ends of the stage, and both ends of each aisle. Every so often, Sam peeked through the curtain to make sure everything was in place, and you better believe he was a nervous wreck. All he wanted was to get through tonight's concert so he could leap.

Just then, Heidi came up to him, looking just as stunningly beautiful as ever. "Is everything all right, Greg?" she asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, everything's just fine," Sam answered. No way was he going to tell her the real reason why he was so jumpy. "I guess I just have a case of the jitters."

"Really? Wow," she commented. "I never figured you were the anxious type."

"Oh, it comes and goes," he said reassuringly. "But since you're here, I was just making sure the extra security I requested was here."

"Everything's under control," Heidi told him. "There's agents out in the auditorium, in the lobby, even at the backstage door. We'll be okay."

"Glad to hear it."

"Well, I better tune up now. Like you always say, a prepared musician is a happy one."

"I do? Oh, yeah, I do say that, don't I?"

"You sure do," she smiled. A quick kiss later, she left to get ready.

After taking another peek through the curtain, Sam was making his way backstage to get a drink of water when the portal door opened, and out came Al. He was wearing a blue long-sleeved dress shirt, a gold tie, a black lamé jacket and pants, and black Cuban-heel boots. "All set, Sam?" he asked.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be, I guess," Sam admitted. "Does Ziggy have any new information yet?"

Al checked the handlink. "No, not yet," he said. "I've been working with her for the last 17 hours, trying to find out for sure when, or if Greg gets shot. So far, zippo."

"So what do we do now?"

"Well, for the time being, you just carry on as normal. And don't worry, I'll be right beside you on that stage. If I see anything that looks even slightly out of the ordinary, you'll be the first to know."

"Thanks, Al."

"Oh, by the way, what do you think of my attire?" Al questioned as he proudly held out his arms.

"Hubba hubba," Sam half-joked as he gulped down the water.

"Break a leg," Al softly chuckled as he pressed the side button on the handlink and vanished.

In that moment, the musicians had started filing past Sam to take their places onstage. That's when he knew the time had come. "Well," Sam whispered to himself, "here goes nothin'."

The houselights dimmed, and the audience fell silent. As soon as the curtain opened, Sam pulled himself together and strode out onstage to a rousing applause. With all the dignity and professionalism he could muster, he bowed to the audience and gestured toward the orchestra with a wave of his arm. Deep down inside, though, he was still scared shitless. After all, he had no way of knowing whether or not Todd was lurking about somewhere, or if he'd get through the first song in one piece, never mind the entire concert. Thankfully, Al was right where he said he'd be, and the agents were all in position.

"I'm right here, Sam," Al silently mouthed. Sam responded with a barely perceptible nod, gave the orchestra the signal to be seated, and ascended the podium.

The first performance of the night was Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring". Upon hearing the first few haunting notes from a solitary English horn, Sam found himself starting to feel at ease with the whole situation. As the other woodwinds joined in, followed by the strings, his arms seemed to come to life and move without an ounce of prompting. It was as if he and the music had become one.

And best of all, not once did the baton fly out of his grip.

Finally, after the last few notes were played, the audience applauded, and Sam turned around and stepped off the podium. He was just about to bow when Al frantically shouted, "Sam, look out!"

He looked, and in the very front of the stage left aisle was what, at first, appeared to be an Interpol agent. But when Sam saw the man reach underneath his jacket, he instantly knew that he was armed. That could mean only one thing: it was Todd.

Sam eyes wildly darted around. He didn't know how Todd could've gotten here, especially with security being as tight as it was. All he knew was that he had to do something to protect not just Heidi, but the whole orchestra. And fast.

Just when Todd pulled the Glock 9-mm and prepared to shoot, Sam made a mad dash toward Heidi and threw himself right in front of her. There was a deafening shot, and the bullet struck home—not its intended target, thank God, but Sam. Onlookers screamed in horror as the bullet got him right in the middle of his chest, and he stumbled backward at the viola section's feet.

"GREG!" Heidi shrieked. Sobbing hysterically, she leaped out of her chair, knocking over her music stand in the process, and knelt beside Sam, cradling his head in her lap.

"Oh, my God," a thoroughly dazed Al murmured, his eyes as big as saucers. "Oh, my God...No..."

All hell had broken loose. Spectators and musicians alike dove for cover as Todd started rushing toward the stage. Agents charged over to restrain him, but he kept them at bay by shooting at them. And yes, they shot back at him, as they were trained to do. Just the mere fact that no one got hit by a stray bullet was nothing short of miraculous.

Suddenly, Sam leaped up in one second flat. Todd barely had time to react in shock and disbelief before he was tackled. They rolled across the stage as they struggled for the gun. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw an agent running over to the trouble spot, and with a snap of the fingers, he slammed full-force into Todd like a runaway truck. Two more agents joined the fray, wrestled him to the ground, and pried the gun from his hand. And then they proceeded to, as Al would put it, beat the living snot out of his ass.

All the while, Al stood there, at a complete loss for words. He just saw his friend take a bullet for Heidi, and then overpower her attacker. The other musicians were equally astounded as they crowded around Sam. One of the trumpet players—a young Aborigine-looking guy couldn't have been more than 18 or 19—rushed over to check for any injuries when a doctor swooped in and gestured for him to stay back as the agents hauled Todd away.

When Al was finally able to make his legs move, he too rushed over to where Sam was as the doctor started to unbutton his shirt. "You okay, Sam?" he asked anxiously.

"Yeah, I think so," Sam whispered, grimacing in pain all the while.

"Sam, how did...what the hell...but—but I saw that guy shoot you...!"

"Greg, are you okay?" Heidi cried. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and her eyeliner was streaming down her face in two thick navy blue streaks, but she didn't care. All she wanted to know was if her fiancé was going to live.

Seconds later, as the doctor undid the last button on Sam's shirt, they got their answer: he was wearing a bulletproof vest!

"How—how did you know?" Heidi gasped.

"Yeah, how?" Al added.

"Let's just say I had a hunch," Sam smiled wanly as he pointed behind Al.

Al and Heidi both looked to where Sam was gesturing. There, standing by one of the wings, was Agent Laing, giving the thumbs-up. That could only mean one thing: he'd given Sam the vest well in advance.

"Well, Mr. Dawson," the doctor said at last, "you're a very lucky man. Even though that vest saved your life, and there appears to be no physical damage, we'd still like to take you to the hospital for observation."

"But what about the rest of the concert?"

"Don't worry about us_," _Heidi reassured Sam, calmer than before. "It's just a precaution. And besides, we'll be here for two more nights anyway."

"Okay," Sam agreed as two paramedics loaded him onto a stretcher. "That's good to know."

"Well, Sam," Al said triumphantly, "looks like it's time to leap now."

A relieved, satisfied grin spead across Sam's face. "Exit stage left," he concurred as the blue hazy light washed over him, indicating that his mission had succeeded and he was on to the next leap.

When the light faded, the first thing Sam heard was cheering. He looked around to get an idea as to who and where he was, but due to the fluorescent lights hurting his eyes, it was a lot easier said than done.

_"Alle Schwimmer zu Ihren Marken," _a man's voice commanded over a loudspeaker.

"All swimmers to your marks," a woman's voice with a heavy Midwestern accent translated.

_Swimmers?_ Sam thought as he looked down at himself. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he saw what he was wearing: a white, skin-tight Speedo with blue stripes and Stars of David.

"Ohh, boy," he groaned in dread. Talk about being thrown into the deep end of the pool, no pun intended!

**THE END**


End file.
